


Eye of the Beholder

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Magic, Spells & Enchantments, The Sorting Hat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: On late-night rounds, Prefect Hermione discovers a lot more in the chilly, old tower than she’d bargained for.Written for the 2018 round of the DramioneLove mini-fest.





	Eye of the Beholder

Late-night rounds had never been high on Hermione’s list of favourite activities as a prefect. The old castle could be creepy at the best of times, but especially late at night – not that she’d ever admit to such feelings in the company of others, of course. But anyone who walked the old corridors knew that there were sounds that only seemed to surface after midnight, oddly disturbing little noises – tremors deep in the stone walls, a humming that could almost be mistaken for an eerie sort of music, mysterious bangings and knockings that had the disconcerting habit of apparently coming from more than one direction at the same time, so that you could never quite tell where its true origin was. Whether it was made by a human or something Otherworldly was also up for debate, when the subject was discussed at all, which generally, it wasn’t. Noises at Hogwarts were a part of the fabric of the draughty old castle. Its ghostly inhabitants came with the territory, and anything that couldn’t be ascribed to a once-living denizen would simply be chalked up to “Other.” As in, don’t ask too many questions.

On this December night, the clocks had struck the midnight hour not long before. A cold wind whistled through the chinks in the old stones and found its way down the back of Hermione’s robes. Shivering, she pulled them round herself even more tightly as she walked, lit wand in hand. Its moon-white light illuminated a narrow path before her, in stark contrast to the deep, seemingly impenetrable darkness that seemed to swallow up everything else.

She’d just rounded the tower corner where Professor McGonagall’s office stood, when a sudden, rather odd noise stopped her in her tracks. Hardly the wind, and doubtful that it could have been some sort of creature, though if it were, the poor thing sounded like it was in the final throes of a protracted and horribly painful illness that had twisted its vocal chords into knots. It was a sort of gurgling, strangled sound; tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing straight up, Hermione edged closer to Professor McGonagall’s locked door and pressed her ear to the old oak above the brass knob.

Nothing. At least not from the interior of the professor’s office. There was a momentary silence, and Hermione exhaled, relieved, turning to continue her rounds. And then… Bloody hell, there it was again. Rooted to the spot, Hermione’s gaze travelled slowly upwards. The choice that faced her now was just the sort she hated most. If only she hadn’t been alone. By rights, she shouldn’t have been. Anthony Goldstein, fifth-year prefect for Ravenclaw, was supposed to have patrolled with her tonight, but he’d come down with a nasty case of strep throat and was currently laid up in the infirmary, putting up with Madame Pomfrey’s well-intentioned fussing.

But she was alone. And damn it, she wasn’t about to let a little noise rattle her like this. She was brave. She _was_. And she’d certainly faced far scarier things than a _noise._

Right. She’d just march herself straight up the stairs and find out what in Merlin’s name was making such an unearthly sound at – a quick glance at her watch – nearly half twelve in the morning.

The top step was only a few feet from the Headmaster’s office. Hermione stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe, her heart pounding in her throat and between her ears. There it was again, a cross between a crazed yodel and the squeal of a pig. Except now, it was much louder. And curiously, it was followed by what sounded like a coughing fit. She didn’t have to guess any longer about where it was coming from. The only thing remaining was to find out what was making such a gods-awful sound.

At that moment, standing only inches from the door, Hermione had sudden, grave doubts about whether having the unlocking spell for the Head’s office was a good thing or not. Dumbledore was nothing if not thorough, however, and made certain that responsible prefects like Hermione could gain entry in an emergency. Whether this whatever-it-was qualified as an emergency was dubious. But she’d come this far. She _would_ put it to rest one way or another.

Standing very straight, she pointed her wand squarely at the door, inscribing a small arc in the air and murmuring the secret incantation. Slowly, with an audible creak, the door swung open.

Sitting in the Headmaster’s chair, legs stretched out on the desk, feet nonchalantly crossed at the ankle, was a figure wrapped in black house robes. On his head, the Sorting Hat sat at a rather rakish angle, its brim pulled down over the wearer’s eyes. Large, blue smoke rings floated gently up into the farthest reaches of the room, where they clustered together in a cloud that hung over the proceedings like an approaching storm. The smoke rings emanated from a very imposing, old hookah, the very one Harry had told Hermione he’d seen some time ago. She hadn’t believed him at the time; it was all too “Alice in Wonderland” for her. The image of Dumbledore stretched out on a gigantic mushroom, blowing lazy smoke rings from a richly embossed hookah was ridiculous. Not her headmaster. Yet here it was. But the person enjoying himself with it was clearly not her headmaster either.

Another fit of coughing erupted just then, and the Sorting Hat slipped sideways just enough that half of the face beneath it emerged. Young… male… blond hair… grey eyes that were looking decidedly bloodshot… preternaturally pale skin that was uncharacteristically flushed. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face, and he raised a glass of a ruby-coloured liquid in her direction. She realised then what the dreadful noise had been. He’d been _singing_.

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Bravo, Granger. You’ve got it in one.” The smile persisted as he inclined his head in her direction, tipping the contents of the glass into his mouth.

It was one of Dumbledore’s special glasses, the ones he reserved for important guests, Ministry officials, that sort.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Hermione’s ire had begun to rise, along with her levels of impatience and incredulity.

“I should think…” Draco’s speech was slurred, but he soldiered on. “I should think it patently obvious. Even to you.”

“Yes, of course, I can see what you’re _doing_. You know perfectly well what I meant.” She folded her arms across her chest and added flatly, “You’re drunk.”

“Why, so I am. Most observant of you. D’you know, the Sorting Hat has just informed me that I belong in Slytherin House.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course you do, you great prat.”

“No, it meant right now. As in, I oughtn’t be here. Nevertheless, here I am, and here I mean to stay.” He hiccoughed gently and gave her a bemused smile.

“You really should listen to the Sorting Hat, Malfoy. I could report you, you know. What do you suppose the Headmaster will say when he finds out?”

“Nothing. Because he won’t. You’re not going to tell him or anyone.” His voice was still casual, pleasant even, but there was a steely undertone now, and suddenly, Draco seemed far less inebriated than he had a moment before. He gestured towards a chair and inclined his head in that direction. “Sit. You’re here. You might as well do.”

He had a point. Wordlessly, Hermione dropped into the chair and gazed at him. After a moment, he got to his feet and reached for a second glass from the tray on a nearby shelf. “Join me for a drink, Granger. All right?”

She hesitated only for a moment and then nodded. It seemed less an invitation than a command, or perhaps a plea. There was something inexplicably compelling in the words. Filling her glass, he held it out to her and then raised his own, touching its crystal rim to hers.

“Cheers,” he murmured, and tossed back the shot.

Without thinking, she did the same and instantly regretted it, coughing as the fiery elixir coursed down her throat. Wiping her streaming eyes on the sleeve of her robes, she waited. This was Malfoy’s party, and she wasn’t really sure why she was still here, much less why he was. Something told her, though, that she was about to find out.

“Nice digs, yeah? The old man’s got quite a posh set-up. I could really make myself at home here.”

“Looks like you already have done,” Hermione observed tartly.

By way of reply, Draco flashed her a lopsided grin, took a deep drag on the hookah, and expelled a perfect smoke ring, which hung motionless above them until he waved his wand. Instantly, it erupted into an explosion of tiny shooting stars, which fell and melted into nothingness when they hit the Headmaster’s massive old desk.

“Want to see me do that again?” He grinned boyishly, and for just a moment, the years melted away along with the stars and he looked so young, just as she remembered him when they’d first arrived at Hogwarts four years earlier.

“Make you a crown, shall I?” And before she could reply, he’d done it again, only this time the shooting stars settled into her hair, glowing gently in her curls. He nodded, pleased with his handiwork. “Pretty.”

Now she knew he was truly hammered. The beatific grin and half-closed eyes were one thing, but a genuine compliment from Draco Malfoy was something else altogether. He’d forget all about it as soon as he sobered up, no doubt.

Abruptly, Hermione had a startling thought that on its face seemed preposterous, yet she knew in her bones was true.

“You’ve come here before, haven’t you,” she said quietly. “This isn’t the first time.”

“Spot on, Granger. You’ve found me out.”

“Why?”

Shrugging, he fell back in the chair. He seemed deeply tired.

“I was doing late rounds a couple of weeks ago. I was paired with that Bones bint from Hufflepuff. We’d split up to get it over faster, and I found myself here, or rather, not precisely here, but down the corridor. Dumbledore was just leaving, and I could swear he glanced in my direction. As he walked away, he dropped a small bit of parchment. Naturally, I picked it up. It was an incantation.”

“And you tried it.”

He nodded. “’Course. It was for the door to this office. I don’t know why he did it, but it was no accident. I’ve come here several times since. First time I’ve got really pissed, though. Brought my own,” he added quickly. “Couldn’t stomach the swill the old man favours.” He gave a brief, humourless laugh.

“You really have no idea why he did it?” Hermione asked softly. Because all at once, she knew, and the thought was remarkable.

After a long moment, Draco sighed. “Yeah, s’pose I do, really.” He was clearly uneasy now. “I just don’t get it. Why me?”

Hermione regarded him thoughtfully as she took a sip of her drink. Why indeed? There could be only one explanation, she decided.

“Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it. He’s trying to help you. He must feel you need this. That’s Dumbledore. It’s what he does.”

“Fuck that. He can take his ‘help’ and bugger off. I don’t ‘need’ anything, no matter what he thinks.” Draco scowled, his face darkening with agitation.

“Apparently, you do. You’re here, aren’t you, and not for the first time.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Why _do_ you keep coming back?”

This last question prompted a prolonged silence, during which Draco seemed to be making a thorough study of all the objects on the Headmaster’s desk. Finally, he looked up, though his gaze still avoided Hermione’s.

“Fancy the peace and quiet, don’t I,” he started lamely.

“Oh come on, Malfoy. It’s not about peace and quiet. Or maybe… maybe, in a way, it is.” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you trying to get away from?”

“Not ‘what,’” he corrected with a grim smile. “‘Who.’ Umbridge, if you must know.”

Umbridge. Hermione sat up a bit straighter, her drink forgotten. “Oh, but I thought…”

“You and everybody else. And that’s just the way I want it, so don’t you go blabbing this to anyone.” His words were half threat, half plea. He poured himself another finger of the whiskey and knocked it back, sucking in a sharp breath as it went down. “I detest that woman. She’s certifiable. Completely mad. And vindictive. She actually _enjoys_ the punishments she gives, the evil, sadistic bitch. Potter’s not the only one she’s done things to.”

Hermione looked up sharply, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinised Draco’s face. “You?”

Draco let out a short bark of laughter. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I won’t bore you with the gory details, but yeah. All of us. It’s how she keeps us in line.”

“The Inquisitorial Squad, you mean.” Hermione frowned, as images came to mind of Umbridge’s handpicked student goons, spying and ratting on their classmates, marching about smirking and looking superior because they were her chosen pets. But maybe all was not what it seemed. Apparently, physical and psychological coercion were tactics used on the chosen ones as well as on everybody else.

“You lot do a bloody good job of faking it,” she murmured, stunned. “I’d never have guessed in a million years.”

“Nobody would. Nobody _will_. We can’t allow it, or things will be the worse for us. So…” He sighed deeply, shrugging once again. “I come here. It keeps me sane. More or less.”

Somehow, all of this made a strange sort of sense. The least surprising part was Professor Dumbledore finding a way to help Malfoy. The Headmaster seemed to have an uncanny understanding of his students’ needs, particularly in times of personal crisis. Hermione had never been quite sure how he managed it, especially when the student in question seemed perfectly fine. But Dumbledore always seemed to know.

By now, Draco had slumped down in the chair, his eyelids fluttering closed and his breathing becoming deeper and more regular. Quietly, Hermione rose and slipped out. There was much to think about.

The following day in class, their after-hours encounter seemed like something she’d imagined. Draco seemed to make a special point of sneering at her and making rude remarks every chance he got.

Until the end of Transfiguration. By then, the rest of the class had already filed out. Hermione was still packing up her overstuffed satchel when she felt eyes on her and glanced up. There was Malfoy, lounging against a desk, his expression cryptic as he gazed at her.

“Not pretty,” he said quietly. “Beautiful.”

Then, abruptly, he was gone, robes flaring behind him as he strode away.

In that moment, his astonishing words settling on her and lingering like a crown of radiant shooting stars, she truly was.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta, misdemeanor1331, for her keen eye and very helpful input!
> 
> Thanks to mister_otter for the fantastic prompt, which was:
> 
> "Hookahs and Hats - On late-night rounds, Prefect Hermione catches Draco in the Headmaster's office, smoking Dumbledore's hookah and wearing the Sorting Hat."


End file.
